


Sixty Seconds

by sunken_ships (sunken__ships)



Series: write like you're running out of time [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Present Tense, but i tried, i mean we all know the outcome of this it's impossible for there not to be angst, i'm not a historian, like i did research on duels at the time but like, lots of it i'm afraid, more historically correct duel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 04:20:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7299361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken__ships/pseuds/sunken_ships
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the lyric: "The duel will commence /after/ we count to ten."</p>
<p>"Philip Hamilton [from Wikipedia, the free encyclopaedia]</p>
<p>Death<br/>Philip was killed in 1801 in a duel with George I. Eacker... For the first minute of the duel, neither Eacker nor Hamilton lifted their pistols."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixty Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> hey it's me again! i've been a bit idle on the fanfiction front lately, for no other reason than i haven't been using my laptop much so i keep forgetting about the fics i already have written oops. anyway, this fic is a weird mixture between the musical duel, and the more factually correct duel, of philip hamilton and george eacker. irl, eacker didn't fire on the count of seven, nor did he fire early in any way. in reality, a full minute went past before either eacker or philip even raised their weapons. when i discovered this, it really struck a chord with me, and i'd toyed with the idea of putting the idea on paper for a while. also, in the cast recording, anthony emphasises /after/ when he says 'after we count to ten', so i thought i'd use that as the prompt. hope u like it! xx

**the duel will commence _after_ we count to ten**

 

     The gun is heavy in Philip’s hand. His hands tremble so severely that he wonders, in the back of his mind, if he has contracted some kind of sickness.

     Perhaps it is the cold. The sun has barely risen, and a thin cloud of fog hangs over the field. Philip can see his breath curling out in front of him.

_It is simply a duel_ , he tells himself harshly. _Head up, Philip. You already know the outcome of this._

     Yes, the outcome: he and his opponent, George Eacker, will raise their weapons, and Philip will continue raising it until he can fire safely into the clouds above. Eacker will see him doing so, and do the same. It will be agreed that the duel has been sufficiently completed, and both parties will go home.

     That is how it will work. That is how it is meant to work. Philip’s father said so himself.

     Philip’s mouth is dry, and he feels almost as if he will either faint or be ill. Neither of which will happen, of course. Philip is a man. He is nineteen. He outgrew childhood and all of its tears and irrational fears long ago.

     The sight of Eacker sends a bolt of fear through Philip’s core – no matter how many times he has laid eyes on him since everyone arrived – but he pays it no heed. “Mr Eacker!” he calls, thankful his voice sounds stronger than he feels. “I hope you enjoyed your show the day I saw you. It seemed to be quite riveting.”

     “Enough with the nonsensical chatter, Hamilton,” Eacker replies, sounding tired and unimpressed, although, if he’s not mistaken, Philip detects a slight tremor in his voice.

     Eacker sighs and shakes out his arm. “I have things to attend to. Let’s get this over with.”

     Philip takes a deep breath, even though he feels as if his chest is about to collapse. His vision is blurred on the edges. He nods, not trusting his voice.

     Their seconds have drawn lines in the dirt, after measuring out the correct distance. Philip stands at his line, his toes ever so slightly over it.

     He can feel his whole body shaking now, and he’s thankful that he won’t have to fire – he doesn’t believe he’d be able to aim accurately in this state.

     He squares his shoulders and looks at Eacker, and his bottom lip inexplicably begins to tremble. Questions whirl around in his mind. _What if Eacker fires? What if Eacker doesn’t know the rules? What if his gun misfires anyway?_

_What if I never see Mother or Father again? Or my brothers and sisters? What if… What if I d–_

     No. He must put those thoughts away; they only serve distract him.

_Eacker has been in duels before_ , he tells himself. _He understands the rules. He will abide by them_.

     The countdown begins. Both of the seconds speak loudly and clearly. “One. Two. Three. Four.”

     Neither pistol is raised.

     “Five. Six. Seven.”

     Resisting the urge to aim his pistol prematurely, Philip’s heart beats rapidly, and he can feel horrid tears of absolute terror building in his eyes. He can do nothing to stop them.

     “Eight.”

     His knees shake.

     “Nine.”

     His body is as tense as that of an anxious horse.

     “Ten.”

     There is a moment of hesitation, in which neither party raises their pistol.

     The moment becomes a second, becomes two seconds.

     Philip lets out a slight whimper, resisting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut.

     Eacker does not fire.

     The field is deathly silent, and neither man nor boy raise their pistols.

     What is wrong? Why has Eacker not raised his pistol? Why has Philip not?

     Has the duel ended?

     Philip sneaks a glance at his second, but he cannot bear to tear his eyes away from Eacker for more than that moment. Not a body has moved.

     Eacker remains statuesque, pistol pointed at the ground.

     This is not what Philip’s father said would happen.

     A slight chill breezes through the field, and Philip’s arm is shaking so badly he fears the pistol might fly from his grasp.

     He sees Eacker’s head turn slightly, to also glance at the seconds in confusion; Philip thinks, for that instant, _I could shoot him now, I could kill him_ , but then the opportunity is gone, and Eacker is staring at him again.

     Philip’s heart hammers in his chest, and his head throbs.

     But he does not move. He fears that, if he moves, the steely silence will snap and he will be shot.

     So he waits.

     Just as Eacker waits.

_What are you doing, man?_ Philip wants to scream. _Fire, goddamn it. Fire your pistol. Just shoot me._

     Eacker shifts slightly; Philip lets out a strangled gasp, and he almost throws his pistol up towards the man, his finger almost squeezes the trigger, but he realises that Eacker was only adjusting his stance.

     Each ticking second is pure agony. How long has it been? Ten seconds? An hour?

     A tear slides down Philip’s cheek, and now that one has escaped, the others flow freely. Images of his family flash through his mind, and he can do nothing to stop them – his mother’s comforting embrace, his father’s warm hand on his shoulder, his siblings’ laughter. He thinks of his sister Angelica the most. How he longs for her crushing hugs, her games, her joyful smile.

     But instead he stands in a field in New Jersey, shivering either from terror or from the cold he does not know, pressing his lips together to prevent his hopeless sobs from echoing across the empty space. His father would not be proud of him now.

     He almost drops the pistol onto the ground. Would that end it? Would that bring this god-awful ordeal to an end?

     He cannot tell what Eacker is thinking.

     His vision is blurred from his tears, and he only prays that no one can see him cry.

_I’m so sorry_ , he thinks to his family. _I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Father. I couldn’t make you proud._

     Philip does not know how much time has passed before Eacker moves, slowly raising his pistol. Philip scrambles to do the same. Overwhelmed by panic, his other hand snaps up to grip the pistol, but he hurriedly drops it: only children aim with two hands.

     His heart has began racing anew, now that the pistols are raised. He should fire into the air; he can’t bring himself to. He can’t bring himself to be a helpless target.

     He hears a gunshot at the same time he feels a punch to his hip and his arm.

     He hears another gunshot, and he thinks it might be his own, but he is dropping to the floor. He hears someone sobbing and moaning, and he thinks it might be him. He feels his soul being torn from his body through his right hip and left arm, and he thinks he might die.

_I think I might die._

_I think I might die._

_I think…_


End file.
